


Destiny Forged

by goldfootedfool



Category: Brawlhalla (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Mild Blood, pls go easy on me this is my first time posting fic anywhere v_v
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 01:00:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16006976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfootedfool/pseuds/goldfootedfool
Summary: Blood. It had become as much as a friend as the ravens had."Why won't you let me die?" Bödvar’s voice cracked on the last word, and his knees failed him. Bodies littered the area around him and the grass was painted red with their blood. "Why won't you let me die," it was less of a question and more of a whisper as his hands grabbed at the bloodied grass beneath him. He was tired, yet his gods wouldn't let him rest. They wouldn't send anyone strong enough to kill him and give him the glory he desired.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! I'm Edgar and I have a giant love for Brawlhalla, and I've got a lot of stuff to post until my wells are dry! Hopefully you will enjoy them and even leave me a comment to tell me how I'm doing!

_ Blood. _ It had become as much as a friend as the ravens had.    
  
"Why won't you let me die?" Bödvar’s voice cracked on the last word, and his knees failed him. Bodies littered the area around him and the grass was painted red with their blood. "Why won't you let me die," it was less of a question and more of a whisper as his hands grabbed at the bloodied grass beneath him. He was tired, yet his gods wouldn't let him rest. They wouldn't send anyone strong enough to kill him and give him the glory he desired.

He was meant for Valhalla. Meant for glory. Meant for the afterlife he deserved. He had bested all of his foes in battle, had even stopped an entire war by himself. Bödvar clutched his head and screamed as the faces of the many he had slain in battle passed over his vision. Ravens croaked and circled overhead, and his rage bloomed; they were watching him lament and they offered him nothing in return for his sorrow.

"Are you afraid of me? Of my strength? Is that why you won't allow me peace? Are you afraid that I will best you in battle?" The more he questioned his gods, the more his frustration bubbled under his skin. It fueled him; gave him the energy to continue on. It was hard to rise to his feet, but Bödvar found his sword and stabbed it into the ground so that he could shakily raise himself into a standing position.

With heavy limbs, he jostled his sword free, delicately wiping any dirt away and smearing the blood that covered it. He saw his reflection then: tired, bloodied,  _angry_  as he slowly raised his sword to the sky, imagining the gods looking down at him. “If you will not allow me entrance to Asgard; if you cannot see how I am worthy for a seat amongst the gods, I will show you. I will tear down the doors of Valhalla, and I will claim my seat among you. You will all know the name Bödvar Bearson!”

He pressed his blade back into the ground, and leaned against it heavily as he tried to catch his breath. He had made his promise. He would fight his way into Valhalla. If no earthly being could kill him, he would forge a path to his own destiny. It took everything from him, but he limped forward, keeping a wary eye on the ravens circling overhead the battlefield. He would have to prepare himself for the journey ahead. 

The nord didn’t know where the entrance to Asgard was, didn’t know anyone who did know, but that wouldn’t stop him. The only thing that would stop him, was the thing that would put him in Valhalla anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bödvar takes his rightful place.

When Bödvar imagined his death, it was always glorious. 30 men surrounded him as he cut them down, sword or axe in hand, blood pouring from each of his wounds. A man stabs him through the chest, and he looks upwards and smiles, as his last breath is used to shove his sword deep into his enemy, and he falls to his knees, beaten. Sated. A smile lingers on his face as he takes a valkyrie's hand, and he sees Odinn's ravens fly overhead.  
  
He is greeted in the halls by warm faces, his mother, a strong woman who lost a battle with sickness, his grandparents, his fallen friends. Everyone who he had ever lost to battle, he would see there. They would have a feast honoring his name. Bödvar Bearson. Among man; an impressive fighter who let nothing, not even impending death, stop him from fighting.   
  
They would cheer and share tales of his victories, of his death, of how he took so many with him. The men he killed would be there. They could make up in time, if they were still angry with him. But as he saw Valhalla's doors open, he felt something of acceptance over him. He was meant to die then and there. And he was at peace.

* * *

  
_That never happened._ He never got the defeat he so desperately needed. Those who may have been strong enough to defeat him in battle kept away, afraid of angering him and meeting their own death. And those foolish enough to seek him out. Ha. He hardly had to lift his pinkie and they were scrambling away or dead before his feet.   
  
There was nothing that could kill him-- man, nor beast, nor demi-god or king. As he grew older, fear crept up his spine. The cold dread that he would never get to see his dreams come to reality.   
  
That is when he took his fate into his own hands. It took him weeks or months, maybe even years, to find a way to Asgard, to Valhalla, and he did what he did best. He fought. And he won.   
  
He made his way into Valhalla, its doors golden and beautiful, stolen tankard in his fist, and slammed it on the table as the gods and vikings alike sat at the tables line the Great Hall.   
  
Quiet overtook the area. Bödvar smiled. He raised his tankard and spoke loudly, "I am Bödvar Bearson. None have been able to kill me, so I have found my way to Valhalla, and plan to fight for as long as I need before someone can defeat me in battle. And when that happens, I will continue to fight, for I will have taken my place amongst you."   
  
The room is hushed before he sees Þorr raise his cup, a grin forming on his features as he says Bödvar's name for all to hear. Bödvar looked around as the room raised their cups and horns in turn, and felt a swell of pride. _He had done it._ After all this time, he had done what he had promised to do. He settled into a free chair, feeling slaps on his back and a few men spoke to him, asking about how he managed to enter with the troll guarding the doors. He couldn't stop the toothy grin that crossed his face, all the ready to explain his journey there.  
  
Bödvar began his story, keeping his audience enraptured as he told his tale of his battles. A thought flitted across his mind and he wondered just how many of those in the room he would have to get through before someone could best him. It would be interesting, to say the least, and he looked forward to every minute.


End file.
